


Kanto Complex

by SeventhAgent



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types
Genre: Biopunk, Deconstruction, Gen, Mad Science, Miserable Alcoholic Characters, Oak Despises Elm OR DOES HE yes he actually does, One Shot, Red is adorable!, Science is terrifying, What's up with all dem tiles?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-07
Updated: 2016-10-07
Packaged: 2018-08-20 00:52:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8230564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeventhAgent/pseuds/SeventhAgent
Summary: Red wakes up in a strange place and finds a purpose for the first time in his life. Professor Oak leaves a mundane place and wonders if he's a monster. Everything smells like protein juice and xanax. A new adventure is about to begin--let's go!





	

_"I've had recurring nightmares_

_That I was loved for who I am_

_And missed the opportunity_

_To be a better man"_

\--Muse, "Hoodoo"

 

**KANTO COMPLEX**

by

[SeventhAgent](http://mattmacburn.tumblr.com/)

 

~

 

It was an empty dream, a white dream. Bright white, hurt the boy’s eyes—hurt him in a dream, which seemed impossible. The pain branched out from his eyes, wormed its way into his head and _pounded_. The boy rubbed his temples, a habit he’d picked up from Mom. It never really worked to get rid of the headaches, but it made him feel less helpless.

Somewhere, the creak of a door opening. The light flashed brighter, the boy blinked, and--

“Hello there!” He was older, with graying blonde hair and a crisp white labcoat. He smiled down at the boy. “Welcome to the world of Pokemon!”

The boy forced a smile and adjusted his hat. “Uh…thanks?”

“My name is Oak. People call me the Pokemon Professor.”

The boy nodded. It seemed clear enough, what with the labcoat. Very scientific.

The Professor reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small glass ball orb, red and white like a candy cane. He weighed it in his hand and--

“Don’t!” the boy shouted, but the old man was already tossing it to the ground. The boy winced and covered his eyes.

The ball exploded into light. The white walls seared at the boy’s covered eyes. He blinked the stars from his eyes and…

 _I will not scream_ , he thought. The monster pawed at the stark white floor, fuming. Its long purple ears twitched. The Professor stroked the monster’s head absently, and the boy realized that he was not afraid. He _should_ be afraid, right? That’s what you do when there’s a monster in front of you. Scream. Run away.

 _Where would I even run_? he thought, and he choked on a laugh.

“This world is inhabited by creatures called Pokemon,” said the Professor without missing a beat. “For some people, Pokemon are pets. Others use them to fight. Myself…I study Pokemon as a profession.”

“That’s what I thought. You’re a scientist, then,” said the boy. “Uh. It was the labcoat that gave you away, by the way.”

“It usually does,” said Oak, chuckling. He lifted another ball--or was it the same one as before?--and the monster disappeared with another bright flash. “Now, before we go on…can I have your name?” Professor Oak produced a notepad and a pencil, sat down and looked at the boy intently.

“My name?”

“Yes, your name.”

The boy sat there on the ground, thinking about the “right” name.

“Red,” said the boy.

Professor Oak seemed pleased, immediately jotting it down. “Right! So, your name is RED! Excellent.” He jotted furiously.

“Um. Mr. Oak.”

“ _Professor_ Oak, if you would.”

“Professor. What’s...what’s happening right now?”

“You’re having a dream,” said Oak. “Nothing to worry about.”

“It feels real. I mean, there was something Mom said to me once, that you can’t hurt in a dream. My head hurts.”

Oak paused his writing and looked at Red carefully, frowning. “Red, it _is_ a dream. Dreams are strange. They say you can’t read in dreams, don’t they? Well, _I_ can read in dreams. Let me tell you, Red, that there’s a lot of disagreement about what dreams even are, let alone what you can do in them.”

Red shivered. The room was cold. He wanted to go home, away from the Professor and the monster and the white room, so stark white and reeking of cleaning chemicals. “You’re not lying to me, are you?”

“No.” Oak stared into the whiteness of the wall, wrinkling his brow. Then he reached into his coat and pulled out his wallet. He slid a picture out and pointed at it. “Listen to me, Red. This is my grandson. He’s been your rival since you were a baby. Remember him?”

“…yeah. Yeah, I think I do.” _Smell ya later_.

“Er…” Oak paused and smiled, shrugging. “What was his name again?” As Red mulled it over, Oak examining Red’s reactions, jotting down every facial expression.

“Blue,” said Red.

Professor Oak looked overjoyed. “That’s right! I remember now! His name is Blue!”

Red grinned, pleased with himself. He didn’t know why he was so happy, or why his elbow ached so much, but what of it? All of this was a dream, and it was a good dream. Cold and white and full of monsters, but _good_.

“Red!” said Oak. “Your very own Pokemon journey is about to unfold! A world of dreams and adventures with Pokemon awaits!” Oak cried, setting his hand on Red’s shoulder. At the far end of the white room, a door stood open into blackness. “Let’s go, Red!”

Red started towards the door, and that’s when he felt it. Sharp, numb, and sudden as a bee sting in the base of his neck. Cold though, cold like glass...

“Ow! Hey, c’mon!” Red whirled around and saw—white. No Oak, no one at all but blank walls. “Hey, who was that?” Warm numbness ran down his neck, down his chest, down to his feet. Hot bath feeling. No Oak. No one at all. Just him in the white room, head swimming, struggling to stay standing up. “Hey, what about my journey?” Red asked the air. “I’m ready for it! I…I can’t fall asleep when I’m about to go on a…a…” Red stumbled, fell back onto his bottom, felt no pain at all at the fall. “A…”

He collapsed on the floor of the white room. The men in green uniforms threw the door open, lifted the boy onto a gurney, and wheeled him out. The door closed with a hiss, and the usual decontamination protocol kicked in...

***

Professor Oak watched them wheel the new Red out of the White Room from one-way mirrored glass. The post-tutorial fumigation process wasn’t particularly eventful, but the whiteness of the room was relaxing. It purified the soul to stare into the emptiness, to let it swallow him—or so it felt to Oak.

The poison gas of fumigation would kill any outside contaminants left by the soldiers or by Oak himself. It would not wash away the smell, though. The stench of nutrient fluid clung to every inch of the room and even Oak’s labcoat. Sometimes, after a few drinks, Oak imagined that the sickly-sweet protein smell clung to his skin. And then he would drink more, and he would wonder if the blood of the boys and girls smelled like the nutrient fluid, if the battlefields smelled like it, if they would carry that stench as a marker for the rest of their lives even if they by some lunatic coincidence survived for more than a month…

“Oak.”

Professor Oak turned. “Elm.” He bowed slightly. “Good to see you. How’s Johto Complex?”

Elm adjusted the collar of his labcoat. He was always doing that, always adjusting and pulling at his sleeves, fiddling with his buttons. No wonder he always looked so disheveled. “The new Gold’s almost grown. Finish with your Red and we’ll need you for our scenario. Don’t go on too long with those catch ‘em all speeches, would you? 36 hours is ideal.”

“Right.”

“I also...” Another adjustment. “Ah. I need to talk to you about the last run.”

“Go ahead.”

“You let him sleep,” said Elm.

Oak nodded.

“We don’t have time to let them sleep. That’s what the injections are for.”

“The injections have a number of purposes.”

“You don’t need to tell me that, Oak. God damn it, I don’t need to tell _you_ that. You invented the damn things.”

Oak stared into the white wall.

“I want to know why you’ve been letting your schedule slip so much, Oak. It’s not—I mean, I’m not attacking you here, you know? Don’t take it like that. I respect you, and I respect your work with both the children and the monsters. That’s why I’m doing this. You’re a genius, and you’re a patriot, and...” Elm cleared his throat. “People are talking, though. I need to know that you’re not losing you’re edge.”

“Elm.”

“Yes?”

“You wanted to know why I let the boy sleep?”

“Yes.”

“Alright,” said Oak, nodding. “Let me tell you.”

Professor Oak raised his arm and slapped Elm across the face.

Oak kept his arm still in the air as Elm’s widened, as Elm ran his hands over the red mark on his face. The fumigation pumps of the white room clicked off. The putrid stench of protein, the sourness of liquid benzodiazepine...it flared up again. Oak knew it was in his head, mostly, but he smelled it.

He could smell it and when he did he could see the boys and girls in the glass tanks with the plastic tubes and the wires and the 24-hour implanted memory projector show.

“Red remembered something about dreams,” said Oak finally. “He told me that you can’t feel pain in them.”

Elm rubbed his cheek. “Hm.”

“The fake memory men. They’re giving the children too much to go on.”

“Says the man who slapped me for giving him good advice.”

“Right,” said Oak.

“You’d better make your way to the Gold simulation. They’ll need you soon. I hear this Gold is making fast progress.” Elm turned and left—no words of goodbye, probably none ever again.

Alone on the tram away from the Kanto Complex, Oak thought about the sidearm beneath his jacket. He thought about himself and the glass tanks and Elm, and again—the sidearm. A refrain.

Oak pulled out his wallet and slid out the picture of real grandson. Gary Oak smiled at the camera with his friend, Ash. Oak wondered about the letters from them on the front-line, and the weeks-long gap from the last one.

There was no way to know, really. The war would go on. Either Oak would see his grandson again after all of his devilry, or he would not. It was simple and clear cut as the tall grass in the simulations, perfect five-by-five foot in a perfect monochrome world with perfect monochrome villains.

The protein smell rushed back, and Oak reached for the flask in his shoe.

That night, he would dream of being a better man—of being the man that Red and Gold and Blue and Green and all of the color kids in all of the simulations and the battlefield and the shallow makeshift graves all across the world imagined that they were talking to, trusting, putting their faith in—and the dream would hurt.

**Author's Note:**

> I spent some time pouring through some old writing folders I backed up, and I found this unsettling little gem on my hard drive from 2009 or so. And no, I'm not patting myself on the back by calling it a gem--I'm just calling everything else from that general time period INCREDIBLY TERRIBLE.
> 
> Immediately after looking over it and remembering writing it, I realized that this was actually a story I wanted to put out there. I've started and abandoned too many Pokemon fics to count, but this one? I couldn't just leave it there. So I revised the beginning, completely rewrote the end, and...well, that's what you just read.
> 
> Anyway! If you liked what your read, sweet! You can find my more professional stuff at matthewbhare.tumblr.com, or by looking at my shitpost-tastic more casual Tumblr that's linked to at the top of the page below the title of the story. SPOILER ALERT: you are a GOOD PERSON for doing EITHER OF THOSE THINGS but you are ALSO A GOOD PERSON if you DO NOT DO THOSE THINGS but you'll be A LITTLE BIT BETTER if you DO.
> 
> Bye!


End file.
